


Unspeakable Things

by MrsHamill



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universes, Drama, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 07:49:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/795661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsHamill/pseuds/MrsHamill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What might have happened had there been no miracle at the fountain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unspeakable Things

**Author's Note:**

> Lurking on a list is dangerous and can lead to the birth of massive, rabid plot rodentia. That being said, this is an awful fic that just bit and hung on until I wrote it. It has not been beta'd since my alpha beta is under the weather, but I needed to get it off my damn hard drive so I can work on lighter things.
> 
> I would like to state for the record that I do *not* believe this his how Jim would really react in this particular situation; but the idea is just so neat that I simply couldn't _not_ play with it. Apologies for the tissue use.

* * *

"What have you done? _What_ have you _DONE_?!" Naomi Sandburg's voice reached a frequency generally not heard from human throats and Jim winced, but he refused to look directly at her. Instead, he focused on the gentle, predictable rise and fall of the sheet covered chest in front of him, and the beeping of the many monitors. 

A scuffle to one side got his attention, though, and he turned in time to see Simon wrapping his arms around the slender redhead. Naomi's face was a mask of hatred and anguish, and her arms were reaching for Jim -- but not to comfort, not to soothe. To rend. 

"Answer me!" she screamed, drawing a nurse and an orderly into the hospital room. Simon held her tightly, trying to calm her down with gentle, murmuring words. 

"Ma'am, you need to calm down," the nurse said, taking Naomi's head in her hands and looking earnestly into her eyes. "We don't want to have to sedate you." 

"Then you make him answer me," Naomi demanded. Jim assumed that she meant him, but his attention had already turned back to counting breaths and heartbeats. "You make him tell me what he's done to my son, my Blair. My baby..." 

Jim tuned out her sobs and concentrated on the information his senses were giving him. Hearing could tell that blood rushed through veins and arteries, that the heart pumped and the lungs were beginning to clear of their infection. The beeping and shushing of the many machines keeping that breathing steady was, by now, only slightly intrusive. Sight told him that the skin was pale but intact, that the chest rose and fell rhythmically and the familiar, beloved face was still there, still whole. Just not moving. 

His nose still brought him the scent of that awful fountain water, and that was unfortunate but necessary until he could clean Blair thoroughly. That would be soon, he hoped, as soon as Blair woke up. 

On the periphery, Jim could hear Simon talking with a still-sobbing Naomi and Blair's doctor. Phrases like 'persistent vegetative state' and 'brain-death' slipped by him, unnoticed, through the soothing repetition of breathing and heartbeat. He had to keep watching and listening, in case he missed anything, in case there was a stutter. He had to be ready to keep that heart beating. Just in case. 

* * *

Simon Banks turned, rubbed the back of his neck, and grimaced. The news was unrelentingly bad -- not something he wanted to hear. There was a murderous bitch with nerve gas somewhere out there and his best detective had suddenly turned into a helpless lump -- and his best detective's partner was dead. Brain dead. 

"You don't hold out any hope, doctor?" Simon asked the woman one more time, desperately avoiding looking at the sobbing Naomi Sandburg, who sat in a chair near the door to her son's room. 

"Captain Banks, Mr. Sandburg was clinically dead for over forty minutes," the doctor, a tiny Asian woman replied softly. "Every scan we've done has shown no signs of quickening in any of the wave forms. His higher brain functioning is gone. Were we to remove him from the ventilator, I don't think he would even be able to breathe on his own. This is not so much a coma as a persistent vegetative state -- or severe brain death. There is simply nothing left of him." 

"His heart..." 

"It's not unusual for the heart to continue to beat long after the brain has ceased to function," the doctor said. "It doesn't necessarily mean anything. In fact, it's often a boon to us, as it continues to keep certain organs in a functioning state so that they can be harvested and donated to others who are alive, who have hope." 

Simon closed his eyes in pain. Blair's dead, he told himself harshly. That bitch killed him. Jim thinks he brought him back... but Jim's wrong. The only thing in that bed is an empty husk. "What..." he had to stop and clear his throat before continuing. "What will happen if he stays on the ventilator?" 

"Eventually, his organs will cease to function properly," the doctor replied with a sigh. "His body will, basically, collapse on itself. Even medical science can't keep a body -- with no neural activity -- alive indefinitely. Mr. Sandburg doesn't even have the lower functions of the hypothalamus showing -- he is truly dead." 

"You've got to get him off those machines," Naomi said, her voice a raw monotone. "My baby would not want to live that way. He's -- he's a free spirit. Tying him to the earth like this is -- criminal. I won't allow it!" 

"Ms. Sandburg, we've been through this," the doctor said. 

"I don't care!" Naomi cried as softly as she could. Fresh tears poured down her face. "I'm his mother!" 

"And Detective Ellison holds his medical power of attorney," the doctor snapped. 

"Then I'll take him to court, I'll fight that pig, any way I can!" 

"Ms. Sandburg. Naomi; please." Simon gently took the distraught woman by her shoulders and forced her to look up at him. "Jim's just not thinking straight..." 

"You're his boss," Naomi hissed into Simon's face. "Get him away from my baby. Because if you don't, then come hell or high water, I will!" 

Simon sighed. "Let me try. Please. Let me have a few minutes with him." He looked over at the doctor, who nodded. 

"I realize Detective Ellison is consumed with grief at the moment," the doctor said. "But he needs to come to grips with the seriousness of the situation. We only have a short window if we're to have any good come out of this awful situation at all." 

Nodding, Simon released Naomi, patting her shoulders absently. He turned, dropped his head for a few moments to compose himself, then pushed open the door to Sandburg's ICU cubby. 

Immediately, the sickroom smell almost overwhelmed him, making him gag. How was Ellison managing to sit so still through that stench, through the noise of all the machines, the miasma of grief and pain that permeated the place? But sit still he did, hunched over Blair's bed, his eyes fixed on the young man's chest. Blair could barely be discerned beneath the tubes and hoses connecting him to the life-sustaining equipment; his skin was nearly the same color as the sheet that covered him, and his dark curly hair was pulled back tightly against his skull. 

"Jim?" There was no response, and for a moment Simon worried that Jim was in the middle of one of those zone-out thingys... and there would be no Blair this time to call him back. Grief flooded him suddenly and his eyes filled with tears, knowing he would never again have that young man dogging his steps and annoying him, charming him. 

With a sharp movement, Jim's head swiveled towards Simon, and briefly, the pale blue eyes of Simon's best detective focused on him. No zone-out then. "Jim. Come on, buddy. It's time to go," he said, as gently as he could through the lump in his throat, trying to hold that blank gaze. 

"No." The word was softly spoken but harsh, the voice sounded raw and scratchy. Jim's eyes turned back to the bed. 

"Jim, please. I know how much it hurts, believe me, I do, I love him too, sometimes I feel like he's my other son." Simon realized he was getting close to babbling in his distress, but the look in Jim's eyes -- something between despair and rock-hard resolution -- had seriously scared him. "But it's time to face facts, Jim. He's gone. We've got to let him go." Simon reached out and put one hand on Jim's shoulder, hoping to ease, to soothe. 

With a brusque movement, Jim shrugged the hand off. "He's alive," he grated. "I brought him back." 

Gritting his teeth, the better to hold in his anguish, Simon said, "Maybe it would have been better if you hadn't." Jim ignored him utterly, his entire body once again focused on Sandburg's. 

Okay, time for another tactic. "Jim, she's still out there, she still has the nerve gas. Do you want her to get off scot free? Do you want that Barnes bitch to get away with killing Blair and then killing God only knows how many other innocent civilians?" 

"Let the Feds have her," Jim replied dully. "Let them earn their pay for once. I have to stay here, make sure he keeps breathing. Keep his heart beating. He has to stay here, stay with me." 

Something in the way Jim said that made Simon pause, made his mind race to terrible conclusions. It sounded as if Jim felt he was keeping Sandburg alive by sheer will alone, forcing Sandburg to live, making his heart beat... but... why? Why would Jim want to force the issue when it was so obvious... 

"You bastard." Suddenly, Simon was overcome with anger, white-hot and boiling. "You unspeakable bastard. This isn't about Blair at all, is it. It's about you, about _your_ need -- for him! You're keeping him alive for you, aren't you? Aren't you?!" 

Jim didn't turn, didn't answer, but Simon saw his jaw clench and his shoulders slump and knew he had hit the nail on the head. "I can't believe you're doing this, Ellison," Simon snarled. His hands, his whole body was shaking with rage. "After all the things that Blair has done for you, all the ways he's helped you, even after all that, you're forcing him to stay here, keeping him from resting. For your own selfish reasons." 

Simon began pacing within the tiny confines of the sickroom, trying to release his anger and tension before he did something rash, like wrap an IV pole around Ellison's thick neck. "Of all the selfish, self-centered, evil pricks... You take the cake, Ellison. I am not going to let you do this. I am _not_. I'm with Naomi in this, all the way, now. We're going to fight you, tooth and nail, until you let that poor boy go. It's over, Ellison. Damn you to hell." 

Simon strode out of the room, but not before hearing the whispered "Already there, sir," from behind him. 

* * *

"Jimmy, you can't do this." William Ellison stood in the middle of his son's home, scratching his head. Somehow, Jim had transformed half the lower portion of the loft into a sick parody of a hospital room, with machines and hospital bed and paraphernalia scattered about, all focused on the wasted boy whose heart rate was being monitored carefully. "This is insane. You have to work, you can't be here all the time..." 

"I told you, I've got nurses here when I'm not," Jimmy said, carefully eyeing the IV line that disappeared into Sandburg's body somewhere. William shuddered. "He's being well looked after." 

"Well kept, you mean," William snapped, hoping to get a rise from his son. But there was no response. "I know about the situation, son. I know what happened. And I know that Professor Sandburg is dead. All you're doing is keeping a body alive, for no reason. Good God, son... can't you see it? It's like... you're tending a houseplant, watering him and turning him to the sun every day. It's sick, Jimmy." 

"I don't really see where it's any of your business, Dad," Jim said. His tone was the utmost frost, but his hands where they swabbed and examined Sandburg's skin were incredibly gentle. William could almost hear his teeth grinding as Jim's jaw clenched. 

"Of course it's my business, you're my son," William snapped, certain he was unable to put his feelings into the words. "You're ruining your life here. And for what? I'm sure this is not the way Professor Sandburg would have wanted to end his life -- or yours, for that matter." Clench, clench. Grind, grind. Where had Jimmy picked up the habit of destroying his jaw when he was upset? "And what are you going to do when your money runs out? I know all this wasn't covered by insurance. What then, Jimmy?" 

"I'll do whatever I have to do," Jim responded icily. "If all you're going to do is criticize, think you'd better leave now, Dad. It's time for Blair's bath." 

Making an inarticulate sound of frustration, William turned and marched to the door, yanking his jacket off the hook where Jimmy had hung it. "I've spoken to your boss, Captain Banks, you know," he said, trying one last time. "He gave me some idea what Professor Sandburg meant to you, how he was helping you with those -- senses things. I know you must feel grateful to him son, but Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Can't you see how inhumane this is, how unspeakably vile? Think, Jimmy. You've got to stop feeling and start thinking. Please." 

Jim didn't answer; rather he just kept up his gentle ministrations to the shrunken, pale body covered with tubes and wires that lay in the hospital bed. It was grotesque. No one should be forced to live out the last of their life like that. 

His shoulders slumping in defeat, William pulled his coat on and opened the door to leave. "I -- " but what could he say? I love you? Not like this he didn't; this obsessed man was not the rational son he remembered. Keep in touch? No, not until Jim came to his senses -- as if! -- and realized the truth. Finally settling for not saying anything at all, William slipped out the door, closing it softly, firmly behind him. 

He made it all the way out to his car before the horror of the situation caught up to him, and he slumped, leaning his forehead on the wheel. What could bring an otherwise rational man to such terrible extremes? He knew his son to be cold-blooded and calculating when necessary, but still, the man had a heart. It was just inconceivable. 

Fumbling fingers reached for his cell phone and dialed a number written on the back of a business card. After only one ring, the phone was answered by a brusque, "Banks." 

"Captain Banks? It's William Ellison." 

"Mr. Ellison. Thanks for calling me. Uh.. how did it go?" 

William sighed and scrubbed his face. He looked up to the third floor balcony and wondered if his son could hear his conversation, and found he just didn't care. "It didn't go well, Captain. I see what you mean about Jimmy being -- well, unreasonable is a nice word for it, I suppose. This is horrible. Simply horrible." 

Banks sighed, and William wondered how close he had been to that young Sandburg person. It was hard enough to see one's own son acting the fool, but to someone who had been close to both of them... how indescribably painful it must be. "I'll have to agree with you there, sir." Banks sounded much older than William knew him to be. "It can only end badly, but Jim is simply intractable." 

"Captain..." A terrible thought -- one that had been nibbling around the edges of William's brain since he had first seen the wasted body and the tender way Jimmy had hovered over it -- began to intrude into William's conscious brain. From a distance, he heard his own voice -- how steady it sounded when inside he was quaking with fear -- say, "Captain... my son and that young Sandburg. Were they... lovers?" 

There was a long pause, and William waited, heart pounding. Finally, Banks said softly, "I don't know, sir. I just don't know." 

* * *

Jim knew it had to be a dream, since everything was tinged in blue and Sandburg was there. "Blair!" 

He knew it had to be Blair, even though the figure in the distance, nearly hidden by the trees of the jungle, continued to move away from him. With Herculean effort, Jim began running, bounding over dead trees and snags, frantic in his haste to catch up with Blair, to see his Guide again. 

The heartbeat he could hear -- even in his sleep -- was steady and loud, getting louder the closer he got. Finally, he was there, within reach, and he reached desperately, managing to get one hand on Blair's shoulder. "God, Blair, please," he panted, trying to get the man to turn. He needed to see Blair alive again, those beautiful blue eyes dancing with mirth or anger or _anything_ just _life_... 

But when Blair turned, his face was expressionless, his eyes hooded. "Chief? God... I need you Blair," Jim sobbed, dropping to his knees and embracing Blair. But Blair didn't move, didn't touch him. "Please, Chief. Please..." 

"Let me go, Jim," Blair whispered. "You have to let me go." 

"No, I can't. I need you, Blair, please understand... I can't let you go." 

"You have to, Jim. Please." 

"Chief, Blair, love, no, please don't ask me to do that, please..." Jim felt the tears -- tears which would not, could not fall during the day -- flow from his eyes like little rivers. He looked up and blinked, trying to focus, trying to beseech and plead, only to discover he was embracing his pillow. In the loft. With the monitors beeping and the machinery whooshing below, keeping the steady heartbeat steady. 

Clutching the pillow tightly, Jim howled into it. 

* * *

The beginning of the end was signaled by the shrill scream of one of the monitors. Jim had been on the toilet, having just returned home from a long day of avoiding Simon when he heard it. He was up and dressed and at the bed before he knew what he was doing. Blair's kidneys were failing. 

The research he had done, and the advice of the reluctant physicians and nurses who helped him, had warned him of this. But it still came as a shock. Somewhere deep inside, deep in the Sentinel lizard brain, he was certain that Blair would wake up before this would happen. 

His first impulse was to wonder how much it would cost to purchase a dialysis machine and learn how to use it. His second was to wonder how it had ever gotten this far. 

Pulling up the chair that was always nearby, Jim sat and allowed himself to collapse against the body on the hospital bed. It didn't even smell like Sandburg any more. It just smelled of death and decay. 

But he couldn't give up, could he? Not while he had stocks to sell, or while that great heart was still beating... As if hearing his thought, the heart monitor stuttered slightly, then settled back down into the normal, steady rhythm. Now, even Blair's heart was beginning to go. It was as if Sandburg was conspiring against him, forcing him to come to grips with his pain and anguish. 

"I can't, Blair, I just can't," he mumbled, clutching the cold, lax hand before him. The fingernails were bluish. "Please, Chief. Please, come back to me. Let me tell you how sorry I am. Please." 

While the rest of Cascade slowly darkened into evening, at the loft, gloom and silence fell more slowly, but just as steadily. 

end


End file.
